In My Fathers' House
by Lirazel
Summary: Sirius and Nymphadora and 12 Grimmuald Street. You can never really escape your cages. OotP oneshot.


In My Fathers' House

Sirius and Nymphadora and 12 Grimmuald Street. You can never really escape your cages. Oneshot.

I'm so nervous about this. I've never written Tonks before, and on top of that, in my first attempt, I'm trying to focus on the Black side of her that so rarely pops up in the books. So I apologize if she's a bit OOC. But this idea was important to me, for some reason, so I hope you enjoy it.

_Disclaimer: I do not own _Harry Potter_. I am not JK Rowling. I make no money off of this._

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As soon as she opened the door, he began to feel guilty: all the tiny signs were there. Anyone else who would have noticed them were far away: Andromeda, fled to a small northern village with Ted; Narcissa, cold and stately in her colder and statelier home; Bellatrix, sold her soul to the devil long ago. And so there was only Sirius to see the hints behind the bubble-gum locks and the pert nose: her shoulders tensed, as though someone was tightening them with a screw; her mouth set, a line too thin for such a seemingly-happy-go-lucky woman; the hitch in her step that had nothing at all to do with physical awkwardness. But most telling of all was the change in her eyes. Cheerful purple slowly bled to stormy grey, a grey that was all Black.

Not for the first time, he cursed Dumbledore. He loved the man, truly, for giving him the only real home he'd ever known. He knew Harry didn't think he could understand the depth of what Hogwarts meant to him when Sirius had had a home, parents, and Harry had not. His godson was wrong. Sirius had had family, in the strictest, most literal sense of the word, but other than Andromeda, nothing connected him to them other than blood. The house, the creaking, dusty, moldy, haunted house was never really a home. Hogwarts, where James and Remus and Peter and Lily were, where there was the Map and the Invisibility Cloak, where there was Gryffindor Common Room and the Great Hall and the Astronomy Tower, where there was Quidditch and Exploding Snap at two in the morning and homework to be avoided and thousands of tricks to execute…Hogwarts was home. And the other Gryffindors, and then the Order, were his family. He and Harry had that in common, at least.

And he was not so dense that he could not recognize that Dumbledore made all that possible. Nor did he miss the knowledge that the Headmaster provided it for Harry, as well. And he knew that without Dumbledore, there would be no Order, and without the Order, there would be no resistance, and without resistance, his own foul, loathsome relatives would have conquered long ago.

He knew all that, intellectually. But he also knew, with a knowledge that came from the gut and the soul—if he still had one after Azkaban and Godric's Hollow—that Dumbledore could never, ever understand what this house meant. He saw it as an asset, an object almost, a place to be utilized simply because they had possession of it.

But Sirius was a Black, and he knew better. And, he saw as soon as she walked into the hallway, she did, too.

"Hello, Dora." His voice came out rougher than he'd expected, with the bit of echo of dog behind it. He wondered, fleetingly, where all the charm that had captured and broken dozens of hearts at Hogwarts had gone.

But there was no time to meditate on that. As she tried to throw an arm around his shoulder, her left foot slammed into the elephant leg umbrella stand, which promptly tumbled to the floor.

"It's Tonks, Sirius, remember? I hate that name," she said, cheerfully, as she righted the stand and Mother began to screech on the top of her painted lungs. He could tell the cheer was forced, for once, but he would have said nothing, even if he didn't immediately have to bolt over to the portrait to wrestle the curtains closed.

"Wotcher, Great-auntie Walburga." Dora had followed him, and was gazing at Mum with a face both amused and repulsed. He knew the feeling. Dora looked so out of place, standing in the ornate, antique hall in her Weird Sisters t-shirt and her dragonhide boots and the tiny ring in her nose. He thanked whatever powers there might be for it. She was just what he needed at the moment. "Looking grim, isn't she, Sirius?"

He snorted as Mum began to call down curses from the powers above and wail about bloodtraitors and halfbloods and mudbloods and desecration and death. "What else did you expect?"

As he finally got the curtains closed he saw out of the corner of his eye that she let her eyes dart quickly around the foyer. He was used to that; she was, after all, an Auror, and clumsy or not, she did always seem extremely conscious of her environment, at least to the extent of dangers in it. But this was not the calculating, meticulous gaze of a dark wizard hunter. This was the look he felt so often in his own eyes: that of an animal recently thrust into a cage. Inside him, Padfoot howled.

"I imagined it…bigger," she said, more slowly than he'd heard her say anything in his life.

And that was when it hit him. She had never been here before.

He had completely forgotten that, and the ice that coursed through his veins made him shiver. Of course she hadn't. Her mother had been disowned over two decades ago. Andromeda would never have let her daughter visit such a place and no self-respecting Black would dream of allowing their halfblood niece or cousin or grandchild into 12 Grimmuald Street. They would die first. _Well, they have. _

And so it struck him all the harder, her reaction to this place. Remus had shivered, made a wry comment about the dankness. Moody had grunted, and that was all, as usual. Molly had been appalled by the filth. Arthur had merely gazed around him with solemn eyes. Kingsley had announced that it was the worst place he'd ever seen and that he preferred to live in a shack in Knockturn Alley. Mundungus had immediately darted throughout the house, trying to find anything at all worth selling.

But none of them had had as violent of a reaction as Dora had underneath all her Auror control. It had to be the blood. There was no other explanation.

"Well, come in, Dor—Tonks." He grinned without mirth at his own correction. "Mundungus is here somewhere—sleeping off his drink—and Kingsley should be dropping in any minute. I have no idea where Remus is, and Moody's got guard duty, and Molly and Arthur aren't coming for a few days—they're bringing some of the kids when they do—so I guess it's just us for now."

He gestured her into the kitchen, the only room Molly had as yet managed to make moderately tidy. "How's Andie?" he asked as he grabbed a flagon off a nearby counter and drew down a couple of Black crest-embossed goblets.

"Mum's fine. Dad, too. Said to tell you hello. She sends her love, and Dad asked about the bike."

He rolled his eyes as he poured the firewhisky—just a little bit; one never knew when Molly would pop in. He appreciated that the woman had raised seven kids, but sweet Merlin, she was overbearing. Drove him crazy. "Ah, the bike. Amused the hell out of him. Haven't seen it since Azkaban. Hagrid had it for a while; I'll have to look into that." He watched as she almost fell over trying to sit down on the bench. "Little good it'll do me, though, if I never get to leave here," he grumbled under his breath, so quiet she couldn't hear.

The flutter of her eyes was the only giveaway of emotions, the only physical sign of the shift of tone. "Mum wanted to come, Sirius. She wanted to see you, more than anything, but Bella's watching—"

He took a sip of the whisky and waved her words away. "I understand, Dora. If anyone understands, it's me. Maybe…maybe I'll see her soon."

She blinked at that, but didn't pursue it. Instead, she announced, cheerfully, but with a hint of gravity behind it that only he would ever have heard, "When Moody goes to get Harry in a couple of days, weeks, whatever, I'd like to go, too."

That meant a lot to him, but he was never one to verbalize things like that. And she was never one to be comfortable with hearing it. "Think you can stay on the broom?"

"Why you—"

"Because it never ceases to amaze me that you can actually Apparate without splinching, much less manage to not fall off your Firebolt."

He was grinning toothily and she was glaring at him. "I'll have you know that I was the best backup Keeper Hogwarts ever had!"

He laughed out loud, his barking laugh, with his head thrown back at that. He could just imagine it: Dora trying to be so helpful, opening up the Bludger boxes only to have the balls escape her, accidentally knocking out her "teammates" with the Beater bats, tripping over spare broomsticks, never being able to keep her hands around the Snitch. Dora was deadly, almost graceful, with a wand in a tight situation, but whenever death wasn't on her heels…well, that was a different story.

She grinned a little sheepishly, if Dora could ever be said to be sheepish. "I wasn't half bad, you know. Oops. Sorry."

He grabbed a washrag off the counter to mop up some of the whiskey she'd spilled when she knocked over his goblet. "Seriously, though. How's guard duty?"

"Well, I don't do it very often. It's boring, for one thing, just watching those lumbering fat relatives of his tumble in and out of that auto-lobile. Moody's mostly got me doing reconnaissance work stalking suspected Death Eaters. Dung has got it most nights, you know—"

"_Dung_?" Sirius shot up off the bench. "They have that good-for-nothing pile of rags guarding _Harry_?"

"Now, Sirius, they've got that Figg woman down the street, and Moody stops by as often as he—"

"What is that incompetent going to do if Bella or someone like her goes after him? What about Dementors or something? What about—"

"Sirius, I really don't think Dementors are something you have to be worrying about—"

"This is _ludicrous_! I have to talk to Dumbledore immediately!"

She grabbed his arm, knocking over the thankfully-empty flagon of firewhiskey with an empty clang. "He's in the middle of getting school set up for the new year right now, Sirius. Besides, he'll be here Tuesday night for the Order meeting. You can talk to him then."

"What if something _happens_ to him between now and then? If something happens to Harry—"

"I _know_, Sirius. But he'll be fine. Tell you what, if it makes you feel better, I'll watch him myself, how's that? I'll talk to Kingsley tonight." She winked at him sloppily, her lopsided mouth falling into a grin, but it didn't fool him like it did everyone else.

He sat down slowly, grudgingly. "Alright," he grumbled. That was the best he was going to get for now, he knew, but that didn't mean he had to be happy about it.

"So, did you hear about the new tour the Howling Banshees are going on? Wicked new song, that 'Roll Like a Mummy'. I'm gonna try to get tickets. Think I could convince Moody to go with me?"

It was nice talking about nothing with her, nicer than talking about nothing with anybody else. But he almost twitched with irritation, despite it all, because he was sick and tired of nothing. Nothing was drifting through this house like a ghost, trying to avoid the whispers or shouts of the portraits in their frames, attempting to escape the feeling—no, the knowledge—that the house hated him and wanted him out, visiting Buckbeak and telling him endless stories about the Marauders' days of glory.

He wanted—craved—needed action.

He barely noticed the nervous drumming of her fingers on the table as the conversation progressed, was almost unaware of the hysterical edge that was pushing its way into her tone, completely missed the wariness in her eyes, so caught up in his own angst was he. He was only aware of the way the walls felt as though they were moving closer, inch by torturous inch; the quiet, almost imperceptible breathing of the floorboards, a vaporous breath; the creakings of the house that croaked out dark words; the shadows growing deeper and more concrete by the moment; the very air charged with leering, hostile electricity. The sweat inching its way down his back, the hair on his arms standing on end, the set to his teeth, the echo of Padfoot howling in his ears: all of this was his world, beyond the lightly spoken, forced words he wasn't really aware he was saying in response to hers. And so he was completely shocked when she came apart.

Suddenly, with no warning, she slammed down the goblet, and the wine sloshed all over the table. "Damn it, Sirius, how can you stand it here?" She ignored the liquid spreading over the wood, and he did, too. Her voice trembled with more raw emotion than he ever remembered hearing. "This is hell, Sirius…." Her voice was softer now, but no more controlled. "A…a...a bloody...cage."

Yes. That was exactly what it was. No other words for it. And she was the only one who understood that. He growled. "They think I want out because I can't stand inaction. The think it's because I want revenge." His voice was almost more Padfoot now than it was Black, and that felt good. The dog was not Black or bloodtraitor or anything else. The dog was of his own choosing, one of the few parts of his life that had ever been under his control. He and James and Remus—_and Peter_—had created it out of a bond every bit as deep as the blood that flowed in his veins.

"And Merlin knows I do want it. More than almost anything. But…." He turned violently, letting his eyes rake over the cage around him. This room was better than any other in the house; it had always been the domain of house-elves and his mother had almost never set foot in it except to count the silver. Because of this, it had escaped the taint of the Blacks more than any room in the house. But it was still the most hellish place he could imagine outside of Azkaban.

"Exchanged one prison for another. Can't we ever get away?" He wondered how he could hear both violence and despair in his own voice.

Dora had silently grabbed a washrag and was mopping up the wine. "No." She said it flatly, but softly. "No, we can't."

He hated this. Hated what it was doing to him, yes—he was as aware as anyone else how close to the edge Azkaban had pushed him; more aware of the fact that he had yet to move away from that edge—but at this moment, hated more what it was doing to her. He remembered a plump, cooing baby; a toddler who laughed uproariously at the silly faces he pulled; a mischievous kid who was more than a match for any Marauder; a clumsy schoolgirl with only one dream, to be an Auror, even if he had never gotten to see her during that phase of her life because of Azkaban; a talented and deadly witch.

But now she was none of those things. Now she wasn't Tonks.

In this kitchen, in this house, she was Nymphadora as she was nowhere else. He understood now, just a little, why Andie had given her daughter the name she had. At the time, he'd thought her insane. But now….

Her eyes were still grey and rocky, but her nose was no longer a snub. It was long and patrician, and her fingers were as well. And suddenly there were waves of black hair cascading down over her white shoulders, and she was more delicately boned, less muscular. And her mouth was Bella's mouth, slightly curved up at the corners, and not in a pleasant way.

His own voice shook to see it, to see the barely-controlled emotion that was making her body tremble, to see flush building on the snowy cheeks, to see her eyes close. "Dora…Dora…Tonks, stop it!"

And then she was back. From dragonhide boots to bright pink hair, she was Tonks again. Except for her eyes, which she seemingly could not control any longer. Except for the faint trembling lingering in her no longer-delicate hands.

"I…I…Sirius, what is this place doing to us?"

He turned away, unable to meet the question in her gaze. "What it's always done. Always. Spinning webs, catching us like flies. It's got us now, Dora. They've got us now."

He wasn't sure who or what he was talking about now. It could have been the house or their family or the blood or the war or even Voldemort. It didn't matter. It was all that, and more. So much more that they would never be able to deny or escape.

"No!" Her voice was violent, but there was no ring of Bella's rebellion in it now. If anything, she sounded more like her mother than ever, for all she had so taken after Ted. "No. We are who we choose to be, Sirius. We're Tonks and Padfoot, if we want to be. Maybe we can't ever really forget, but we can choose who we are now. We can't give in to it."

He rolled the stem of the goblet between his fingers. Long, elegant fingers, like hers had been before. "No. You're right. We can't."

She straightened her t-shirt in a clumsy Tonks movement. "Right. So…."

He sat down wearily. "We pretend. We've always been good at that. It's a Black trait."

She shot him a nasty look, but one that was much more like Ted than Bellla, and for that he was thankful. "Don't you dare start that. But yes, we'll pretend. We'll deny it."

"With every action. But we won't give up trying to escape. Blacks never give up, either."

Silence simmered like the cauldron on the stove for a few long minutes. Then, far off at the other end of the house, they heard a door slam open and a voice echo down the hall. Dora turned to him, smiled cheerfully and sloppily, even if it was forced. "Starting now," she said, and he saw the strain in her face as she slowly, painfully forced her eyes back to the lilac they had been before.

Well, there was no arguing with that. "Starting now," he agreed, grudgingly, then plopped down at the table as Kingsley strode into the room with Tonks' new assignment for the afternoon.

But Sirius didn't hear a word Shacklebolt said. Instead, he nursed his firewhisky, watching his cousin bump into the edge of the table and ruefully massage her hip, manufacturing little awkward, Tonks-like comments for the other Auror. And when, with a grim smile in his direction that didn't come anywhere near her eyes, she followed Kingsley from the house, Sirius tromped upstairs with a fresh flagon in his hand to sit beside Buckbeak and stew in his hate for this house till he was sure that every single person on the family tree he was no longer represented on could feel it. It was his rebellion, his refusal to surrender to the darkness they all spun around him, his declaration of war. He would not be content till he could be out of here again, free to fight against all the evil his family had brought into the world.

_Yes, Mother, I'll get free. Father, don't you forget it, nor you, Cissy, and Reggie, if you can hear me. Andie, don't forget I'm still fighting, too. And Bella--know I'm coming after you._

After all, it was all he'd really wanted, anyways, all his life: to escape this house, this family, this life.

And he would, if it was the last thing he did.

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